Free Winter Hawk Star by Sigmund Brouwer Page A

that I didn’t raise my arms in triumph, the usual reaction anytime a player scores. Instead Ishrugged like hitting the prettiest slap shot of my life was just routine.
    I’d scored so quickly that our line still had plenty of time left on this shift.
    In my head, everything seemed quiet, like I had no thoughts. No worries. Just a calm peace and total concentration on the puck. Almost like when Sam and I had chased the kidnappers and they’d stepped out of their van armed with switchblades. Then, I’d only worried about how I was going to protect myself. Now, I only worried about the swoosh of my skates on the ice, the click of the puck on my stick. I liked the feeling, the tightness of determination that seemed to fill my stomach.
    Casey lost the draw at center ice. Their center drew the puck back to their left defenseman, directly ahead of me. I charged ahead.
    As expected, the defenseman passed around me to the Tigers’ center who was cutting through the middle. I turned back and jumped into full speed, chasing down the Tigers’ winger I was supposed to guardon my side of the ice. I followed the winger all the way to the top of our own face-off circle, staying so close their center couldn’t pass to my side and was forced to dump the puck behind our net.
    John Mason, as defenseman, picked up the puck. I stayed along the boards, giving him an outlet if he needed to pass to me.
    The Tigers’ forward stayed right beside me, guarding against a pass to me, just like I’d earlier guarded against a pass to him.
    In theory, I was playing my position. No one could fault me for staying along the boards and tying up my man. It was the safe play. Nobody could blame me for any mistakes if I remained there.
    I pushed off the boards, catching the Tigers’ forward by surprise.
    All right, Estleman, I thought, you won’t be able to say I don’t try.
    I busted for center ice, angling to keep myself open for a pass. I kept my stick down on the ice, giving the defenseman a target. I yelled for the puck.
    He snapped it forward.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw their defenseman. He’d moved up to bodycheck me, hoping I’d have my head down as I tried to receive the long pass.
    At the last second, I hit the brakes so hard that my skates skidded across the top of the ice. I braced for the hit, let the defenseman bounce off me and then I scrambled for the puck.
    No thoughts cluttered my mind except to pump my legs as hard as I could. I chipped the puck ahead, sprinted to go wide around the remaining defenseman.
    He slashed his stick down across my arm, trying to knock the puck loose. I didn’t feel any pain; I felt detached from anything but the single thought of getting the puck to the net.
    Clear of the final defenseman, I cut back to the center of the ice. There wasn’t much time left as I reached the net. Without thinking, I made a fake to the left, drew the puck back in near my skates, flipped it to my backhand side, pulled it out of reach of the goalie and banged it into the net.
    The crowd went berserk.
    I didn’t. I skated back to the bench as if scoring two goals in one shift was no big deal.
    Coach Estleman thumped me on the back as I stepped into the players’ bench.
    â€œGreat goals!” he shouted. “I knew you could do it!”
    â€œHmmph,” I said.
    I scored my third goal five minutes later, snapping a wrist shot into the top left corner of the net from the top of the face-off circle.
    At the end of the game, two things happened.
    Coach Estleman told me to expect to play on the second line next game. And he sent me to the hospital.
    Scotty was right: the cut took exactly five stitches.

chapter fifteen
    Driving my Jeep, I was daydreaming about my hat trick the night before. Because it was a Thursday afternoon, Riley was beside me on our way to Youth Works. We had hockey sticks for the kids in the far back portion of the Jeep, our gym bags in the